Letter 46
Maybe mirrors are liars.
June 11, 1947
Ashford House
I looked at myself in the mirror today and didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
Not because she looked different, although she does. Her eyes are tired in new ways. Her mouth is quieter, like it’s afraid of saying too much. Her hair is longer, looser, caught between not caring and forgetting how to care.
But it wasn’t just appearance.
It was… the way she stood.
She used to reach for the world without thinking. Now she folds her arms.
I remember brushing my teeth while you tied your tie behind me in the mirror. I’d try to move so you could see, and you’d smile and say,
“I see you just fine.”
You always made it sound like I was the reflection.
As if you were the original.
The real.
The light source.
Now I see shadows.
Now I am shadows.
I touched the mirror, like a child in a fairy tale, thinking it might ripple. Thinking maybe you were on the other side. Some stories teach us grief is a door.
But there was only glass.
And me.
And something behind my eyes I didn’t want to look at too long.
Maybe I’m not supposed to be the same anymore.
Maybe mirrors are liars.
Or maybe they show us exactly what we’re too scared to admit.
I miss the version of me that existed only when you were watching.
That was the realest I ever felt.
Calliope.
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